At the sound of spit slapping against the dead woman’s face, bowed heads bobbed up. The minister opened his mouth, shut it again, and fidgeted with the edges of his clerical stole. Family members, who were resettling on the front pew after having paid their final respects, turned to identify the desecrator.
All eyes fell on the grey-haired man who stood, trembling, before the open casket. With his back still to the room of mourners, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He replaced it, refolded, in his pocket and turned to face the angry stares.
Around the chapel mourners leaned together for a murmured consultation. “Who’s that?”
“Never seen him before.”
“It’s amazing what will crawl out of the woodwork for a funeral…”
The man scanned the room, jaw set. His gaze stopped at the widower, Bill Perdu, 79, an old-school gentleman and cornerstone of the community. Bill, whose numbness impeded the possibility of reaction, stared back, eyes vacant of recognition or understanding. Slowly, his mouth dropped open. He knew.
The stranger watched as Bill swallowed hard, as his eyes averted to the left, as his shoulders slumped.
A middle-aged son and a son-in-law grasped Bill’s shoulders in reassurance. The younger sons further along the front row squared their shoulders and puffed their chests, while their old father seemed to shrivel up, like an autumn leaf in time-lapse photography.
The bewildered minister stepped forward with an apologetic cough, poised to utter something conciliatory. The outsider raised a hand to stop him. A quake of emotion distorted his face and strangled him. Words would not form; tongue would not loose; teeth would not unclench. He screwed up the photocopied bulletin in his left hand and dropped it before stalking up the aisle.
Bill’s oldest daughter Shirley had her hand on her father’s right forearm. She looked into his eyes, seeking an explanation, but all Bill could give her was a sad shake of his head. The silence pulsated with tension.
“Wait–” Bill finally choked out. He hobbled on arthritic feet after the stranger.
The man froze halfway down the aisle but didn’t turn around.
“Wait. Stay–with us. Sit with me. We’ll talk afterwards. I–I wanted to find you, to tell you she was dying …but…” Bill sighed. “Please. She would have wanted this.” He gestured toward the pew where the family was seated.
A tear slid down the man’s face. He turned and faced Bill.
A hand was extended. The stranger just stared at it until Bill lowered his hand with a sorrowful nod. The two men walked to the front row. Robert Perdu squeezed against his younger brother Allen to make room in the pew for the stranger. The man sat down, rigidly leaning away from the Perdu men.
Pulling his handkerchief out, Bill went to the casket to dab Eleanor’s face clean. He kissed his finger tips and laid them on her lips, and said, “There you go, my love. We’re all here now. Even Adam.”
Bill took his seat next to Adam, the son the nuns took from Eleanor when she was sixteen, disowned and all alone, the son ever remembered but never found.
The minister raised his hands in benediction. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to honour the memory of Eleanor Mara Perdu, wife and mother…”
Recent Comments